Tuning William - Fuzzy Bones

Gilbert said. "You will shoot them dead on the spot," Napier said evenly, "and inform me at once."

Without replying, Gilbert took his Class-A Agent's identity plaque from his pocket and pinned it to the breast pocket of his blouse. "I take it you mean I start immediately, sir," he said.

Napier was pleased. "You take it correctly, Mister," he said.

Gilbert leaned forward slightly in his chair and reached behind his back. From under his blouse he withdrew a nine-millimeter automatic. Pointing its muzzle toward the ceiling, he stripped a round into battery and thumbed the hammer back down to the double-action safety position. "Personal?" Napier inquired.

Gilbert nodded.

"Inventoried when you came on station?" Napier asked. "No, sir," Gilbert said, smiling. "You know Regulations don't require that of a Class-A."

"Then, why are you making this show?" Napier asked, puffing slowly on his pipe.

"So you'll know I have it and where I carry it," Gilbert said. "You're my direct boss, now. I'm on assignment. I owe you the courtesy."

Napier nodded thoughtfully.

Class-A Agents were distributed throughout the military services and were assigned to normal duty-from which they could be detached to perform Class-A functions. Most often it was just a matter of being present in the pay room when personnel were paid in cash, but there was also the matter of transporting payrolls and acting as couriers for diplomatic level and high-security documents. In their Class-A functions they were required by regulations to be armed. Most of them habitually carried a personal weapon, since it was often more expedient and efficient than digging up a Master-At-Arms to draw an issue sidearm. They were not required to surrender it on boarding any station, vessel, or civilian carrier-or even acknowledge that they possessed it.

Napier got to his feet. "I think we understand each other, Mister, on the

importance I attach to this matter." He lifted the front of his tunic to reveal a pistol tucked in the front of his waistband.

"Are you expecting trouble, sir?" Gilbert asked. "I mean, is there an agency of active intent to compromise this set of security?"

"I doubt it, Lieutenant," Napier said, "but I'm a great believer in prevention. Hell; at the moment, only a few people are even aware of this situation. There will be more, of course, as their Need to Know comes into the picture." "Is that the reason for the beat-to-quarters-and-man-guns treatment the Commodore is applying, here?" Gilbert asked deferentially.

Napier sat down. "The reason," he said gruffly, "is the potential of Federation-wide importance. You'll see that as we work along on building the duplicate folio. At the moment, your capacity is basically that of an armed copy-boy." "Yes, sir," Gilbert said. That seemed clear enough. The Old Man was telling him to keep his nose clean and curb his curiosity.

"Take the rest of the day to clean up any loose ends on your regular duty job, Lieutenant," Napier said. "You start here at 0800 tomorrow. I '11 have desk space rigged for you in the outer office. For now, that is all."

Gilbert got to his feet, saluted smartly, and said, "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

As soon as Gilbert had departed, Napier punched out the combination for the Communications Center. As the screen cleared, he said to the yeoman, "Get me First Battalion commo on Zarathustra. I wish to speak with Lieutenant Colonel O'Bannon, Sergeant Helton, and Commissioner Holloway, either in that order or as a group."

"I'll signal you when I have them on screen, sir," the yeoman said.

"Put it on scramble-8-and thank you," Napier said.

"What do you mean, he's not here?" Christiana said apprehensively.

"I mean, he's not here," the sexton replied. "He had an appointment with the Governor General at Government House, but I expect him back-"

Christiana clenched her fist as her hand flew to her mouth, and she bit the knuckles to keep from crying out. "Governor Rainsford?" she said. "He had an appointment with Governor Rainsford?"

"Why, yes, Miss," the man said, "but he '11 be back-"

"That's all right," she said, cutting him off, again. "I'll see him some other time." She turned and hurried out of the mission, onto the darkened esplanade.

Christiana was accustomed to being double-crossed, used, and taken advantage of. It was something she had allowed to happen to her all her life. She had grown to mistrust people-until she met Victor Grego-so it was natural, in her mind, to assume that The Rev's visit to Ben Rainsford might also involve some breach of the confidence into which she had taken him.

It had stopped raining as the wind turned warmer. Both Xerxes and Darius peered through the remaining ragged clouds, intermittently flooding the poorly-lighted esplanade with shifting patches of pale illumination.

Christiana almost didn't hear her name being called.

"Chris. Chris!" the voice said. "Over here!"

She turned toward the sound, trying to orient herself with her surroundings.

She hadn't been aware of walking so far, but here she was, in front of The Bitter End. Recognition flashed across her face. "Gwennie!" she said, hurrying toward the short blonde with the unmistakeable cascade of curly hair falling across her forehead and spilling down around her shoulders. They hugged each other.

"What are you doing down here?" "I thought you'd be Uptown by now." "I'm moving up the street, at least." "You're looking great." They both talked at once for a moment, and then paused for breath.

"Gwen," Christiana said, "what are you doing out here without a wrap? Here, take my coat."

Gwen's face was flushed, and two rivulets of sweat trickled along her collarbone before they joined and disappeared down the front of her dress. She exhaled cigarette smoke through her nose. "I'mall right," she said. "It'shot enough to bake Ghu 's gizzard in there. I had to get some fresh air." "Busy weekend coming up, huh?" Christiana said. Gwen nodded. "Marines are starting to drift in already. And, how's your love-life?"

Christiana shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "That's the hell of it."

Gwen squinted through the cigarette smoke as she used both hands to pinch the fabric of her dress and tug the damp garment away from her body. She moved her hands back and forth with a quick, fanning motion to make the air circulate inside her clothes. "Honey," Gwen said,"one never knows; that's the real hell of it."

"I just can't get anything out of him," Christiana said. "I mean, he's attentive enough-but really formal about it-but I don't know where I stand with him."

"Yeah," Gwen said thoughtfully, "Jim is the shy type, too. 'Course I haven't really picked between the two of them, yet. I think I like Jim better, though.

Ev 's always shooting his mouth off about how great he is-never how great/

am."

"I thought you and Laporte-" Christiana said, "- were-uh- I mean, I thought that's why you moved the act over here from Pandora's Box."

Gwen made a disdainful gesture. "Laporte? No, that's just to keep the animals off me while I'm working. Laporte? I'd sooner go out with a khooghra; the conversation would be better."

Christiana nodded understanding. "I'm just paralyzed, Gwen. I've got to make a move with this guy, but I'm afraid to do anything for fear I'll lose him."

Gwen put her hand on Christiana's arm. "Look; let's go inside and talk a while. We got time for a drink before I go back on."

In a few minutes, Christiana poured out the story of what a wonderful man Victor Grego was, how he was attentive without pawing over her, how he always treated her like a real lady, how kind and considerate he was-both toward her and Diamond-to say nothing of the good manners he had.

"Sounds like a hell of a find to me," Gwen said. "Why don't you just snap him